Like the prairie flower with soft white petals, Miss Kitty's face had a faraway look, her blue eyes likely fixed on a place somewhere outside the Long Branch, a bright dream place with only herself and Mr. Dillon there. They had more time for each other in summer, as the heat made folks too sluggish to break the law much.
As he approached Miss Kitty at the end of the bar that muggy night, Chester reckoned just part of her would chat and smile and listen to him. The rest of her would be with Mr. Dillon, even though he wasn't at the Long Branch now. He'd gone to the Lady Gay, where some cowboys got to fighting over cards.
"Miss Kitty." Chester tipped his hat and leaned on the bar beside her, not smiling as he usually did when he greeted her.
"Chester," said Kitty. "You tired?"
"A speck."
"Sour stomach still bothering you?" said Kitty.
"Ah'm 'bout mended. Doc says take it easy an' don't eat nothin' like fried chicken yet. I git wore down if I work too hard."
"No danger of that," said Kitty.
"Well . . . no. I 'spect not." Chester lowered his head and looked at the bar, studying the polished wood. He hadn't tried his hand at carving in a spell. Maybe he'd whittle a bird.
"Want a beer?" said Kitty. "On the house."
Chester turned his gaze to her, his brown eyes gloomy. "Thank you, Miss Kitty. Can I have whiskey?"
"Sure. Sam, a whiskey for Chester."
"I'll take a bottle, Sam," said Chester. "I got the money for it, Miss Kitty. Less the drink you're buyin' for me."
"You bought a bottle for the marshal's office yesterday," said Kitty.
"That un's settin' in the desk drawer, ain't been opened. Mr. Dillon wouldn't want me drinkin' it, seein' as the marshal's till money pays fer thet bottle."
"Why do you need another bottle," said Sam. He and Kitty knew that Chester grew tipsy after two full glasses, and three made him drunk.
"I'm payin' for it, Sam," Chester said snappishly, "so you hand it over. I don't see you askin' them other men what buys a bottle."
"What're you barkin' about, Chester," said Sam.
"Now don't start yelling at Sam," said Kitty. "I'd like to know what you want a whiskey bottle for, too, Chester."
"Wahl, Miss Kitty, I jest do. A body oughter be able ta buy a bottle in a saloon without answerin' a heap a questions."
"Miss Kitty?" said Sam.
"Give him the bottle, Sam," said Kitty, looking at Chester. "I hope you're not thinking on getting drunk, Chester."
Chester made no reply. He pulled some coins from his pocket, slapped them on the bar, picked up the bottle and glass and moved to a table.
Sam stepped close to Kitty and they watched Chester. "Wonder what's eating him," said Kitty. "He wasn't grumpy even when he was sick in bed."
"You don't get pettish 'til you're on the mend," said Sam. "That's the way it is with me anyway."
Kitty looked up at Sam in surprise. "You're never pettish, Sam," she said.
A small grin creased Sam's craggy face. "I just don't let it show, Miss Kitty." Which was true. Sam showed little emotion, yet Kitty wholly trusted him. He was kind, steady and reliable, and as loyal a friend as any man in town; and Kitty felt sure that when he left the job, she would sell the Long Branch and leave Dodge, her love for Matt notwithstanding. Unless Matt proposed marriage, and after years of intimacy he showed no sign that asking Kitty to be his wife entered his head.
Chester threw back the glass of whiskey, gasped and coughed. He preferred beer, and when he did drink whiskey he generally sipped it. He grimaced, filled the glass to the brim and gulped half of it, which was all he could swallow at once. He coughed again, hunched his shoulders and shuddered, and his face contorted.
"Sam," said Kitty, "he is getting drunk. He'll make himself awful sick if he drinks that whole bottle. Chester can't take that much whiskey."
Sam shook his head. "Fool thing to do on the heels of a stomach ailment," he said. "You want me to take it away from him, Miss Kitty?"
"No," said Kitty. "He'll have a time forgiving me or you if you stop him. Maybe if I talk to him."
She moved to the table as Chester drained his second glass. "Chester," said Kitty. "Mind if I sit down? I been on my feet awhile."
Chester looked at her, his eyes already bleary, then startled and jumped up as he remembered his manners. "Miss Kitty," he said, pulling out a chair for her. He couldn't recollect ever wanting to sit alone and drink rather than chat with her, when he had her to himself particular, like now, but tonight he did wish to sit by himself and get drunk. He'd never move to another table though or ask her to go away.
"You drank two," said Kitty, as he filled his glass a third time.
"Now Miss Kitty," said Chester, slurring a bit, "I done set ma mind on drinkin' the last drop, if you do set and watch."
"Chester, why drink it all and get sick if two makes you feel better."
Chester hesitated and frowned, considering. "It's still there," he said. "I wanna drink 'til it's all washed away."
" 'Til what's washed away," said Kitty.
" 'Tain't nothin' to bother you 'bout, Miss Kitty." Chester picked up the glass and eyed her uneasily.
"Well go ahead," said Kitty. "I've seen you get drunk before."
"You look more troubled this time," said Chester. "I don't want you worryin' 'bout the likes of me."
"I am more worried, Chester. 'Cause you're still getting over stomach gripe." Kitty hoped to discomfort him enough so he'd stop drinking from that bottle.
"If I get sick, I get sick." Chester drank the glassful down without pause.
Kitty felt a rush of irritation bordering on anger. "Alright," she said. "You're set on making a drunken fool of yourself. I wouldn't have sold you the bottle, but I thought you had better sense." She scraped back her chair, stood and went to the bar.
Miss Kitty tempering at Chester stirred a sore tightness in his chest, atop the gut emptiness that had nothing to do with hunger and made him feel like a misty shadow. He refilled the glass with an unsteady hand, splashing whiskey on the table.
When he finished the bottle within an hour, his shirt was stained with whiskey, and he'd spilled little puddles on the table. He rested his arms, shoulders and face on the table and passed out.
Kitty wouldn't let herself watch Chester drink. She kept busy serving drinks and chatting with the men until Sam caught her attention and inclined his head toward Chester.
"Oh no, Sam," said Kitty.
"Do you think the marshal will blame me?" said Sam. "I feel responsible, Miss Kitty."
"No," said Kitty. "I made the decision to sell him the whiskey, and Matt won't blame me, either. Chester drank that bottle, so he's the one responsible. He can be mulish when the mood takes him. Matt knows that." Kitty knew Matt wouldn't blame her, as he rarely found fault with her for anything, even when she was at fault.
"Should I put him to bed upstairs?" said Sam.
"Matt will be here any minute," said Kitty. "He said he'd be by tonight. He'll take care of Chester."
"It doesn't seem right, leaving him to lie on the table," said Sam. "Maybe I should take him to Doc's."
"Here's Matt now," said Kitty, as the marshal pushed through the batwings. "Matt will take care of him," she repeated.
Matt habitually, almost unconsciously, scoped any room he entered, and he saw Chester sprawled over the table with the glass and empty whiskey bottle when he walked in the Long Branch. As he moved to the table, Kitty left the bar and met him there. "He's passed out drunk," said Kitty. "I tried to stop him."
"It's not your fault, Kitty," said Matt, as she'd known he would.
"He drank the whole bottle," Sam said from the bar. "I was about to take him to Doc's when you came in."
"He might not need Doc," said Matt. "Best let him sleep it off." He put a hand on Chester's shoulder. "Chester." His friend didn't stir. His shoulder under Matt's palm felt hot, his shirt was sweaty and he reeked of whiskey. "You got any smelling salts, Kitty?" said Matt.
"I keep some on hand for the girls," said Kitty, hurrying back to the bar. She returned with a vial and handed it to Matt, who unstopped it and held it under Chester's nose.
Chester came to with a snort. His eyes widened and he smacked his hands over his mouth and staggered toward the side door, gagging. Sam rushed to the door and opened it, and Chester stumbled through the doorway. Sam followed him and opened the back door leading to the alley, and Chester reeled to the outhouse.
"Well at least he's bringing it all up. I'm afraid he'll be real sick after though," said Kitty. "He's still recovering from sour stomach."
"I'll put him to bed and have Doc take a look at 'im," said Matt.
"Do you know what's troubling him, Matt?" said Kitty. "He won't tell me."
Unless a real problem existed outside Chester's head, figuring what disturbed him at any given time did not usually occur to Matt. His friend was both easygoing and temperamental; that was just Chester, and the thought of talking out his trouble felt awkward to Matt. He was sure Chester would feel the same.
"I don't know," said the marshal. "Maybe you could take some outings with him, Kitty. Go fishing."
"Then he's lonely?" said Kitty. "We haven't paid him much attention this summer, Matt."
"Kitty, you said you wanted us to do more together this summer. You and me."
"I do. And we are. I don't want us neglecting Chester, though."
Chester tottered back in through the side door. "I best say goodnight now, Miss Kitty," he said. "Ah'm feelin' a l'il poorly." He tried to tip his hat and gave up when his fingers couldn't find the brim.
"Alright, Chester," said Kitty.
As he shuffled to the batwings, his left leg buckled, the lame leg splayed to the side and he fell on his back. The marshal moved to him, wrapped his arms around Chester's ribs and pulled him up, and slung his arm over Matt's shoulder.
"See ya, Kitty," said Matt.
"Goodnight, Matt."
The night had cooled somewhat with a breeze, and the air was drier. Chester sagged against Matt, his chin resting on his chest. Almost asleep on his feet, he tripped every few steps.
Doc likely had gone to bed, and Matt saw no reason to wake him. Matt would spend the night at the marshal's office and go for Doc in the morning if Chester felt too poorly come sunup.
Chester let out a snore before Matt lowered him to his bed and pulled off his boots. The jail cells were empty, and Matt chose the near one to bunk for the night. He took off his boots and lay down, and thought on his talk at the Long Branch with Kitty.
Matt figured it wasn't his company Chester missed, as his friend craved the companionship of fine women like he needed food and water. All the better if the women were young and pretty, although that was not a requirement. Chester often called on Ma Smalley, and visited a widow lady in her eighties. Matt linked his fingers behind his head, crossed his ankles and grinned in the darkness. Ma was the best cook in town, and the widow lady was known for her delicious pies.
Some time had passed since Chester courted a girl, and as he gave scant attention lately to the Long Branch gals, Matt guessed he had a hankering to court a lady. The few unmarried ladies in town showed no interest in Chester, nor were they a suitable match for him.
Though Chester was especially fond of Kitty, he valued his friendship with Matt too much to make advances to her. Kitty loved Chester as a friend, and though she'd never said so to Matt, he was tolerably sure she liked the way Chester looked, too. Which didn't mean she'd ever considered treating him as more than a friend. If she did, Matt would know. Or he thought he would.
The marshal scrubbed his fingers through his curling waves of hair and shook his head, unsure why his thoughts trailed this way. An idea was forming in his head, as if he had nothing to do with it. It was quirky and risky, and out of touch with Matt's pragmatic nature. The idea could strengthen Chester's spirits, or confuse and cause him misery, and Matt shrank from the thought of bringing further distress on his friend.
Matt attributed the notion to too much sun, and wondered if his head was fevered. He touched his palm to his forehead, which felt warm and damp from the jail's humid air but not hot. He disliked the idea for his own sake, yet was willing to suggest it to help Chester. Matt would sleep on it and decide in the morning.
He raised up on his elbows and listened, and heard Chester's soft regular snoring, which meant he wasn't comatose. The marshal turned on his side, closed his eyes and drifted into a restful, dreamless sleep.
An early riser, Matt was out of bed at daybreak. Chester lay on his stomach, his hands tightly cupped around his head. "Chester?" said Matt.
Chester rolled over still clutching his head. His face looked sallow and drawn, his eyes puffy and ringed with dark circles. "Ah'm turrible sick, Mr. Dillon. The sour belly come back, and ma head's fit to bust."
"Seeing you drank a bottle of whiskey when you're gettin' over the gripes, that's expected," said Matt. "I'll get Doc to look you over."
Chester stayed in bed while the marshal quickly washed and shaved and ran a comb through his hair, pausing often to give his friend a searching look. Except to move his hands from their grasp on his head to cover his eyes as the sun rose, Chester lay quietly.
Matt strapped on his gunbelt and put on his hat. "I'm goin' for Doc," he said. "You want some water?" Chester mumbled something that sounded like "No," so Matt went out.
The sun was already white-hot and the air heavy with moisture despite the early hour. As he headed for Doc's, Matt pondered the idea that had come to him last night. He'd share it with Kitty and see what she thought before mentioning it to Doc.
Doc saw nothing out of the way in Chester downing a bottle of whiskey. Though he normally drank no more than two beers a day, on occasion he'd get drunk, at times for reasons Doc figured were nebulous to Chester himself. Doc would treat whatever illness the whiskey caused without dwelling on why, at least not hard or for long.
"Alcohol poisoning most likely," said Doc, loading his bag. "Chester's not the kind of body can take a whole bottle in one sitting and get over it easy, particularly since he's mending from the stomach gripes."
When Matt returned to the marshal's office with Doc, Chester lay in bed on his back, his arms crossed over his eyes. Doc sat on the bed and moved Chester's arms away from his head. He was grimacing, his eyes squinted to slits until he saw Doc, and the strain faded from his face. His eyes formed their natural large round shape, blinking at Doc.
"Chester," said Doc. "Had too much to drink last night, did you?"
"I drunk a bottle, Doc." Doc lifted Chester's lids with his thumb and peered at the whites of his eyes, looked at his tongue and listened to his heart.
"Don't poke at ma belly," said Chester. "I kin tell you it hurts."
"You poisoned yourself, what you did," said Doc. "You'll need some bed rest, then take it easy awhile when you get up."
Doc took a bottle of stomach bitters and one of peppermint, and some headache powders out of his bag and put them on the table. "I'll leave these here," he said, and handed Matt a flat tin box. "Ginger root," said Doc. "Sliced fresh. I keep it on hand for belly sickness, and it's good for cleansing the blood. Put that to boil for a tea, Matt, and I'll fix a medicinal."
Doc mixed two spoonfuls of stomach bitters, two of peppermint and a packet of headache powder in a cup of warm water as Chester watched the preparations with interest. "Sit up and drink this, Chester," said Doc. "You'll start feeling better in a minute or two."
Chester drained the cup. "It's curin' me a'ready," he said. "I thought last night on whittlin' me out a bird, Mr. Dillon. Seein' as I haveta rest. I cud spread newspaper on the floor by my bed to catch the shavings."
"Doc says rest," said Matt.
"The belly pain done eased though," Chester argued. "In my head too. I cain't lay flat doin' nothin' the day long."
"The pain will come back off and on," said Doc. "Take some more medicine when it does, and sip the ginger tea all day. I'll check you out again tomorrow morning, see if you're alright to get up. Don't eat anything 'til I say so, and no coffee. Just the tea, and medicine in warm water."
"Don't feel like victuals no how," said Chester. "Ah'd scarce swallow 'fore heavin' um back up. Can I work a carvin' if I set in bed whilst ah'm whittlin', Doc?"
"No harm in it," said Doc. "Just lay down and sleep when you get to feeling tired. Which you will."
Doc gave Chester's shoulder a pat and left, deciding to skip breakfast to pay some sick calls, and Matt pulled Chester's knife and a stack of penny frontier stories from under the bed, gave him a thick hunk of firewood and spread newspapers on the floor, and set a steaming cup of ginger tea nearby.
"You goin' out again, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester.
"I'm goin' to see Kitty," said Matt. He said nothing about his intention to ask Kitty to breakfast with him at Delmonico's, as Chester had to fast that day and through the night on Doc's orders, and Doc would likely restrict him to milk porridge and soup the following day.
Matt nervously eyed the sharp knife in Chester's slightly trembling hand. "You sure you're up to whittling?"
"Ah'll take care," said Chester. "Um feelin' some feeble; not 'nough ta slice myself though."
Matt thought more on his idea as he walked to the Long Branch. He was sure his plan would not shock Kitty, though she might be surprised that he conceived it, and she could outright reject it as harmful. She'd doubtless never imagine that Matt would entertain such a notion, and neither had he before it invaded his thoughts. It must be on account of the season, Matt figured, wondering how Kitty would take his suggestion. Like Chester drinking a bottle of whiskey, just about anything could happen in summer and sometimes did.